Grandpa laughed. “Hmm, we’ll see. . . .”
After Allison helped Muriel with the lunch dishes, she decided to venture down to the shore. Muriel told her about a nice little strip of beach below the house. Because Grandpa had spent the morning entertaining her with tales of days gone by, Allison knew he was due for a rest.
George showed her the way to the steep rock stairs carved into the side of the bluff. “Now, you be careful. On wet days these steps can get pretty slick.”
She stepped cautiously on the smooth stones, but they were dry and seemed safe. It was hard to envision a beach below; all she could see were jagged rocks piled on top of one another. The steps wound around and almost under the cliff, emptying out into a protected corner surrounded by rock. And there, sure enough, lay a secluded strip of beach about half a mile long.
The clean white sand was warm from the sun, and she immediately kicked off her shoes and rolled up her pant legs. The water was ice-cold, but she waded in up to her ankles. The sky was cloudless and bluer than a robin’s egg. She ran along the water’s edge, leaping and splashing until she came to a huge piece of twisted driftwood. She sat on the surf-polished wood and allowed the repetitive sound of the waves to mesmerize her, the only interruption an occasional lonely screech of a sea gull.
And yet another sound teased her ears. Fleeting notes of . . . Was it actually music or just her imagination? She strained her ears to hear. It floated—then vanished. Maybe it was the wind whistling through the cliff rocks. She slid off the log and moved toward the rocks. The notes became clearer, and it sounded like a flute.
Around the corner, seated on a large, flat rock, was a girl with long blond curls that glistened like gold in the sunlight. Though the girl’s back was turned, Allison caught the gleam of a silver flute in her hands. Allison blinked at the image before her. It was almost dreamlike, the music ethereal. When she stepped closer she almost expected it to vanish. Then the music ceased. The spell was broken and Allison felt like an intruder.
“Hello,” the girl called without turning around.
Allison approached timidly. “Hello? I’m sorry if I disturbed you, but your music was so enchanting. I thought I’d discovered a sea fairy.”
The girl laughed. Even her laughter sounded musical; soft and tinkling. She turned and smiled brightly, but her dark, wire-rimmed sunglasses quickly dispelled the fairy image. Allison was relieved to see she was just a normal girl.
“Come on over,” said the girl. “I’m Heather Amberwell. I live up on the bluff over there.” Allison recognized Heather’s British accent. It reminded her of Nanny Jane’s, only different.
“I’m Allison O’Brian. And I live—well, actually, I’m staying over there on the other side of the bluff with Mr. Riley O’Brian. Maybe you know him?”
“Oh yes. He’s good friends with Grace. Is he a relative?”
“My grandfather. Who’s Grace?” Allison asked, hoping she wasn’t being nosy.
“Grace Sanders. She’s kind of like our mum. Winston calls her Mummy—that’s my little brother. He’s only nine and he was so little when we lost our parents, he thinks of Grace as his mum.”
Allison watched Heather finger the smooth surface of her flute. Allison wanted to ask her dozens of questions, but that might be impolite. “I’ve only just come to Oregon. Have you been here long? I can tell by your accent you’re not from around here.”
“No, we came over during the war in ‘44. Grace brought us. Our parents were killed in the London bombings. We’d been living in the countryside with a farm family. Grace stayed at the same place and helped care for us. After our parents died, no relatives wanted to take all three of us together. We couldn’t bear to be separated, so Grace offered and that’s how we came here.”
“You say three. You, Winston, and who else?”
“My big brother, Andrew. He’s sixteen and he thinks he’s the man of the family. Well, in a way he is. You see, Grace’s husband was an Air Force officer over there, but he never made it back. He was shot down over France.”
“That’s too bad. My father died in the war, too.”
“I’m sorry. War’s a miserable thing. At one time I thought I’d never be happy again, but here I am, just glad to be alive.”
“I could hear that in your music. You play beautifully, Heather.”
“Thank you. It was my mum’s flute. I was only seven when they died, and I’d just begun to play. Now I can’t seem to not play.”
“And this is just the right spot for it. The sounds go perfect with a day like today.”
“How old are you, Allison?” Heather asked abruptly.
“Fourteen.”
“Just what I thought. I turn fourteen on Saturday. We’re planning a picnic birthday. Maybe you could come?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I mean, it sounds great, but I’ll have to check with my grandpa. He’s been ill, you know.”
“Of course. I understand. Do you know what time it is?” Heather pushed a windswept curl from her face.
“Half past two. Goodness, where’d the time go?”
“I thought so. Andrew was supposed to get me at two.”
“Why’s that?” Allison asked.
Heather looked down and scooped up a fistful of clean white sand. Allison watched the grains slip between her fingers, trickling down like miniature fountains, sparkling in the sunlight.
“Sometimes I use a line on the cliff steps, but today I came with Andrew. He went to do work on something, but he promised to get me at two.” Heather faced Allison. “I’m blind.”
Allison was speechless.
“It’s no big thing, really. I hope it doesn’t make you uncomfortable. I’ve been blind since birth, so I’m used to it.”
“I never knew anyone who was . . . blind. It’s kind of surprising. I mean, you seem so normal . . . not that you’re not normal. I mean—how do you play the flute so beautifully?” Allison felt like she was stumbling all over her words. She was glad Heather couldn’t see how red her face was.
Heather laughed again, this time more loudly. “Oh, Allison, it’s all right. You’ll get used to it. And I play the flute by ear, not by reading music. Though I do read. I love to read, but Braille books are hard to come by.”
“I think it’s interesting. I can’t imagine what it would feel like to not see.”
“And I can’t imagine what it would feel like to see.” They both laughed this time. “Allison, maybe you could help me find my way back home. I really think I could make it, but I got lost once and Grace made me promise to always have someone with me or take the line.”
“What’s the line?”
“Oh, Andrew rigged it up. He’s so inventive. It’s just a rope tied to the steps, and I carry it on the beach with me and follow it back. Simple as pie.”
Allison had no problem guiding Heather home. The wooden stairs led them straight into a neat little yard. An attractive woman in coveralls with a bandanna on her head met them. She wiped dust off one hand and extended it to Allison.
“I’m Grace,” she said pleasantly. “Excuse my appearance, we’re doing some fix-ups.”
“This is Allison,” Heather said. “I found her on the beach. Well, actually, she found me. I’d probably be down there all day if she hadn’t come. Andrew promised to get me at two.”
“Oh dear, I’m sorry. It’s my fault. I sent the boys to town for more paint. I told Andy I’d get you, and I must’ve lost track of the time.”
“Well, Grace, since it was you—and you’re nearly perfect—I guess I’ll forgive you this time,” Heather joked.
“Would you girls like a root beer for your troubles?” Grace offered. “I know I could use one.” She stuffed a chestnut curl back into her bandanna.
Allison sat with Heather on the old wooden porch.
“I hear the jalopy,” Heather called. “Better bring two more, Grace.”
Allison peered down the drive, and sure enough, there came an old red flatbed around the tur
n. It pulled to the side, and out hopped a young boy in overalls with a curly mop of blond curls. A tall, dark-haired young man reached over the wooden sideboards of the truck and pulled out two big cans of paint.
“Grace, I hope gooseberry green will do, because they were all out of gray,” he yelled toward the house.
Grace stepped out with a tray of root beer mugs. “You better be joking, Andy, or one of these drinks will go right down your back.”
“Joking, Grace. Only joking.” He strode up the stairs in one easy step, stopping abruptly when he saw Allison.
“I didn’t know we had a guest.” He feigned a dramatic bow.
“This is my nutty brother Andrew, Allison. And this is my new friend, Allison, so be nice. She found me deserted on the beach and rescued me.”
“Uh-oh, did Grace forget you? Well, Allison, to you we are eternally grateful,” he said dramatically.
They laughed and joked and drank root beer. Winston told them in graphic detail about the dead skunk he saw in the road.
“Ugh, and on that note, I think I better go. Thanks for the story, Winston. I shall remember it always,” Allison said.
“Oh, must you go so soon?” Heather looked genuinely disappointed. “You see, Winston, you scared my new friend away.”
Winston looked truly sorry.
“No, you didn’t,” laughed Allison. “It’s just that my grandpa is ill and I don’t want to be gone too long.”
“Well, how about my party? Grace, I invited Allison to join us. I knew you wouldn’t mind. What time shall we say?”
“I thought around ten on Saturday morning. We’ll drive up to Arrowhead Rock.”
“I’ll have to see. It’ll depend on my grandpa’s health. Can I call you later?”
“I’ll write down the number for her,” Andrew offered.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know my grandpa’s number. But it’s the O’Brian place.”
“You mean Riley O’Brian?” Grace asked in surprise.
Allison nodded. “He’s my grandpa,” she said with pride.
“Of course . . . just look at you!” Grace exclaimed. “You are James O’Brian’s daughter!” She swayed slightly and her face grew pale.
“Are you all right, Grace?” Andrew asked, easing her into the big wicker chair. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”
“I sort of feel that way. . . .” Grace stared at Allison in disbelief, then reached out and touched her shoulder. “I’m so sorry, dear. It’s just that when I met you, you felt so familiar to me—but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Now it’s as plain as day. You’re your father’s daughter.”
Allison’s breath caught in her throat. “You mean you knew my dad?”
“Knew him well.” Grace nodded. She looked out past the porch in a faraway stare. “Knew him very well. He was a good man.”
Allison glanced nervously at her watch. She longed to stay and find out more, but she knew she had to get back to Grandpa. Already she’d been gone much longer than she’d intended. “Well, I guess we’ll have to talk more later. Thanks for everything. I’ll call you, Heather—about the party.”
She dashed up the beach. A thick bank of fog crept in off the horizon. She hoped Grandpa was okay. Why had she stayed away so long? She ran until she came to the steps and remembered the warning. Climbing carefully, it seemed to take forever to reach the top. In the yard, George was busily planting another tree. He waved as she dashed for the kitchen door.
“Allison!” Muriel exclaimed. “What a fright you gave me. What’s the great hurry?”
“I . . . I didn’t mean to spend so much time away, and I just got so worried about Grandpa,” she explained breathlessly. “Is he okay?”
“Oh, darling, now, don’t you fret. He just woke up from a nap and is looking ever so much better. I was about to take some tea up for him. If you could slow down long enough, maybe you could take it for me.”
“Sure, just let me wash up a bit first.”
Grandpa was perched up in his bed amidst a stack of pillows when Allison entered his room a few minutes later. He glanced up, dropped his book on his lap, and stretched out his hand to her. “Come in here, lassie. Now, you’re looking fine. You’ve got roses in your cheeks and a sparkle in your eye.”
“I was about to say the same to you.” She set the tray down.
“Then I see our beach agrees with you. I always knew you’d love it here. I’m just so glad you finally came.”
“Grandpa, I do love it here. I feel so at home. I even made friends already.”
Riley’s eyebrows arched. “Who would that be, my dear?”
“I met a lovely girl out on the beach. Her name is Heather.”
“Oh, one of Grace’s gang.” He smiled. “Nice folks.”
“Yes, and Saturday is Heather’s birthday. She asked me to join them on a picnic, but I told them it would depend on you.”
“Of course you’ll go! You can’t let an old codger like me slow you down. After all, this is your vacation. I can’t hog all your time. I haven’t asked yet—I’m almost afraid to—but I have to know. How long are they letting you stay? I know it wasn’t an easy thing for them to allow you to come. . . .”
Allison looked out the window at the fog bank slowly creeping in. Would Marsha even find out? “Oh, Grandpa, I can stay all summer . . . perhaps even longer.” The way his face lit up, she didn’t care if it wasn’t exactly the truth. For now it would have to do.
“This will be the best of summers, then,” Grandpa proclaimed.
Allison shared his smile, then paused. “Grandpa, Grace mentioned she knew my dad. I could hardly believe it. There’s so much I’d like to know about him.”
She watched as he gazed out the window. His face reminded her of the sunshine just as it was doused by the fog. She wished he would talk about her father, especially since he was such a wonderful storyteller. She wondered why he clammed up whenever she brought up the subject. It was almost as if he hated his own son. Did he still, after all these years, blame his son for her grandmother’s death? Had her father, a man she’d never known, really been a terrible person?
Grandpa and Allison spent the following day together. She didn’t want to leave his side for a moment. She knew she’d never tire of him and hoped he wouldn’t grow weary of her. After dinner Grandpa made a fire in the den fireplace.
“You know the weather isn’t always this bad in the summertime. But it is unpredictable, that’s for sure,” he said.
“Oh, I like days like this, Grandpa. Of course, I wouldn’t want them all the time.” She examined a German nutcracker on the mantel. “Where did this come from? Have you been to Germany?”
“Do you play chess, Allison?” he asked, changing the subject. He slid the carved marble chess set next to him.
“I’m not much of a player. I mean, I know how to play, but I don’t play very well.” She replaced the nutcracker. She suspected it had been sent by her dad during the war. Nanny Jane had said he’d been serving in Europe.
“Hmm, well you’re an O’Brian, and you come from a long line of chess players, so we better try you out.”
Allison scooted a hassock over by the large table and watched Grandpa arrange the pieces. She wondered if her dad had been a chess player, too.
“First we’ll just play quick games to warm up on, and I’ll give you some pointers and hints, all right?”
Allison nodded and listened as he continued to explain some basic principles of the game. After a couple of short games, Allison found she understood it better and actually liked chess.
“Do you want to play another, Grandpa? I don’t want to wear you out.” She reset the pieces.
“Are you sure you’re up for it? I feel ruthless—I might massacre your chessmen.”
“It’s okay, Grandpa, I can take it.” She grinned. They played for almost an hour.
“By golly, girl. You play just like your fath—” He stopped before the word was out. He stood and stretched, then poked the d
ying embers in the fireplace. “You’re going to be one good chess player, Allison Mercury. But I think I better call it a day. Good night.”
“Good night, Grandpa. Thanks for the lessons.” Allison replaced the chess pieces and scooted the hassock back. She sat down in front of the fire and warmed her hands. The sound of rain beating against the window made the den seem even cozier than usual.
“Yoo-hoo,” Muriel called. “Ah, there you are. Would you like to join me in the kitchen for some tea and shortbread?”
“You made shortbread?” Allison exclaimed. “I love shortbread. Nanny Jane used to make it—she was Scottish.”
“You must mean Jane McAllister. I was so sorry to hear of her passing on. She was the one who tipped off Mr. O’Brian to your whereabouts. God rest her soul. . . . This recipe is from Mrs. O’Brian. She enjoyed shortbread and tea.”
Muriel poured Allison a cup of tea. “Allison, I hate to bring this up, but I think we should discuss it. Do you have any intentions of letting your folks back East know of your little escapade?”
“I—uh, I don’t know. I haven’t given it much thought. . . .” Allison hung her head. This was a subject she’d like to forget—forever.
“I know it’s not easy, dear. It just concerns me that someone may be worried about you or call the authorities. I’d hate to see you get in trouble.”
“I know, I know. . . . Maybe I’ll write a letter to my mother and explain what I did. Maybe she’ll understand.” Sure, Allison thought. That’ll be the day.
“That would make me feel a lot better. I want you to be able to spend as much time here as possible. And if they think we kidnapped you, I’m sure it won’t go over well.”
“Okay, Muriel. I’ll write it tonight,” she promised.
Muriel hugged Allison and gave her another piece of shortbread.
Later that night, Allison opened the little writing desk in her room. It was outfitted with stationery and pens. She sat and stared into the blank white sheet. What could she possibly say that would convince Marsha to let her stay?
Dear Marsha,
I’m sure you will be surprised to learn I’m in Oregon. Yes, I traveled across the country to meet my grandfather. My grandfather, whom I’d never even heard of until this past month. My grandfather, who may be dying.
Allison O'Brian on Her Own Page 9